


'tis the damn season

by ellipsometry



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Breaking Up & Making Up, Casual Sex, Christmas, M/M, Strap-Ons, Trans Felix Hugo Fraldarius, i make sylvain drop out of college in every modern AU sorry buddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:48:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28285005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsometry/pseuds/ellipsometry
Summary: “Sylvain, don’t overthink this.” Felix’s voice goes sharp, and he’s already sitting on the bed with an expectant look.  “This is convenience.  Take it or leave it.”“Take it.  Definitely take it.”Or, Sylvain is back in town for Christmas.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 18
Kudos: 177





	'tis the damn season

**Author's Note:**

> title in lowercase out of respect to miss swift even if it pains me. merry xmas everyone and apologies for any typos!!! find me on twitter [@ellipsometry_](http://twitter.com/ellipsometry_) if you'd like!

It’s barely an airport, just a landing strip carved out in the middle of dense, middle-of-nowhere forest. One terminal, one airline, one incoming flight and one outgoing flight each day. The only people who can afford to fly in and out of Faerghus are the only people who can afford to live there in the first place. The town sits at the top of one of the finger lakes, massive Victorian-style manors spread out on the edge of the lake shore like a massive cul-de-sac. Old money. Old, old, _old,_ money. Money with dementia and that kind of skin that goes so thin you can see the veins beneath, thin blue things branching out like a venation pattern. When people ask where Sylvain grew up, he just says Rochester.

Sylvain arrives the same day Ingrid is leaving, so their reunion is a subdued thing over a cup of lukewarm airport coffee.

“Go easy on him, okay?”

“Who?” Sylvain loves playing dumb.

“You know who,” Ingrid kicks at Sylvain’s shin under the table. “I warned him you were coming, but he didn’t believe me.”

Of course — why would he? What reason does Sylvain have to come home anymore, anyway? “It’s been a while, huh?”

“Yeah.” Ingrid’s eyes go soft, and Sylvain’s missed that more than he can explain, that specific shade of verdant green, the kind of inviting color you’d find on your favorite cable-knit sweater. “Longer for him than me, but.” She falters, fingers rolling up the rim of her cup. Canadian transplant habits die hard. “Don’t stay away so long next time, okay?”

“No promises.” Sylvain doesn’t have the heart to lie, not to Ingrid. He stands up, and makes a show of fixing her scarf around her neck. “Your flight should be leaving soon. I kept the seat warm for you.”

“I’ll text when I land, okay?” Ingrid says, throwing her arms around Sylvain’s shoulders. She’s stronger than she looks — and she already looks pretty strong — and Sylvain staggers back in surprise. “Please, _please_ don’t do anything stupid.”

“C’mon,” Sylvain strokes a hand down the middle of Ingrid’s back. She smells like pine and laundry detergent. “Who would I be if I didn’t?”

+

There are two types of people who live in Faerghus: the ones who come for the summer, and the ones who live there year-round. In the warm months, the town swells to five-times its natural size, bustling with retired couples and college kids and summer flings, all sunburnt noses and sandals with socks. Then, there are the cold months, when the only kind of people who can stand the cold are the ones who’ve been brought up in it. Enter: Sylvain. And, just a couple years later: Felix, Ingrid, and Dimitri.

Sylvain rents a car and rides up towards his parent’s place — and then thinks better of it. If he’s going to withstand the chill of his father snidely commenting on how many years it’s been since he’s visited, Sylvain would rather have some food in him first. If nothing’s changed — and Sylvain is willing to bet nothing has — there’s a great diner squeezed between a Methodist church and an auto repair shop that has just the level of grease he’s looking for. He makes a right turn and _bingo,_ the familiar aluminum sidings and blue neon. Just as expected.

Not as expected: an equally-familiar face. Hair so black it’s almost blue; orange eyes that catch Sylvain’s with that preternatural sixth sense of his; a frown that buckles his face into something sour as he watches Sylvain park. Felix Fraldarius in all his glory. Sylvain’s heart leaps into his throat.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“I live here,” Felix deadpans. He doesn’t look happy to see Sylvain, which isn’t unexpected. But Sylvain still isn’t prepared for the rush of cold air he feels when Felix asks, “What the fuck are _you_ doing here?”

Sylvain winces, brushing his hands against his jeans. He should have brought a warmer jacket. “This and that.”

“Fine.” Felix pouts and _fuck,_ Sylvain’s missed him, missed seeing the way he turns up his nose when he’s upset, missed the sharp way he talks. And he looks more handsome than Sylvain even remembered, planes of his face sharp like they’ve been carved out of the finest marble.

“Wait—fuck, Felix, wait—” Sylvain starts after Felix as he turns and starts walking back toward the auto shop. There’s a dirty rag in his hand and Sylvain’s now seeing the obvious grease stains across his fur-lined jean jacket, the smear of black on his chin. “Wait, do you work here now? I thought your dad was retiring.”

Felix busies himself with — something or other. Sylvain doesn’t actually know shit about cars, he just looks like the kind of guy who should. “Why do you care?”

“Why would I ask if I didn’t?”

“Stupid question,” Felix snorts. “Because you love hearing the sound of your own voice.”

 _Ouch_. Sylvain rubs an imaginary wound on his chest. “Okay, we don’t have to talk about it,” he concedes, ducking his head into Felix’s space. “Can we catch up, though? I was gonna grab lunch if you’re free—”

“I’m not,” Felix snaps, and Sylvain isn’t prepared for how much that quick shut-down hurts, how that leftover sore spot in his chest starts to ache again. Just when he thought it had healed over.

That’s not fair — Sylvain isn’t the one who has the right to hurt, not when he was the one to leave. It’s not like he was the only one unhappy with having his future all perfectly charted out for him before he was even born. They each struggled with it, the promise laid at their feed and the pressure put on their shoulders, and it broke them each in new, creative ways. Ingrid was supposed to marry rich and run the family farm, not run off to Canada with her girlfriend; Dimitri was supposed to follow-up in his father’s footsteps and become a State Senator, not have a breakdown after his parents’ death and have to scrape his way back to normalcy; Felix was supposed to take over his family’s company after Rodrigue retired — and instead, he’s apparently working shifts at the auto repair.

And Sylvain — well, he was supposed to be anything and everything for everybody and anybody. And instead, he ran off to California to live in a cramped attic and write screenplays and follow his _dreams._ Whatever the fuck those are.

(Worse yet, he actually succeeds. Champagne problems.)

Still, it hurts. It hurts to come back after five years and find that nothing really has changed, not even the look of pure hurt on Felix’s face. Same as it was when Sylvain walked out the door.

“Okay, sorry. Really, Felix, you don’t have to—” Sylvain rubs a hand on the back of his neck, and exhales hard. “I’m just in down for the holidays, one week and then you can go back to forgetting I exist. Promise.”

“I’m not—” Felix purses his lips, voice so low and quiet that Sylvain has to strain to hear it. “I said I’m not free _now_.”

“Oh.” It takes a second for the implication to sink in. Sylvain can’t bite back his smile, but luckily Felix is already turning away, wiping his hands down with a clean rag. “Oh! Dinner, then?”

Felix’s shoulders are so hunched they’re touching his ears. And still, Sylvain can catch the bit of red coloring the back of his neck. “Sure, whatever. Come by the house. You know where it is.”

Does Sylvain ever. Take a left on Main Street — every town has to have a Main Street — and go so far you’re sure that you’ve gone too far, and then go _farther_. Only then will you be rewarded with the spire of the Fraldarius home peeking out between white stripes of birch. It’s large and ancient, apparently built by Felix’s great-great-great-grandfather or something like that. Still, it feels warmer and homier than the Gautier household ever did.

“Yeah. Okay, yeah, see you then.” Sylvain’s lost all eloquence, and he even stumbles a bit over his own feet walking back to his car, but the smile on his face is so stuck it hurts. It stays that way, even though he forgot to even grab food; even though his parents regard him with that faux-politeness that turns Sylvain’s stomach; even though he’s relegated to a cold, dreary guest room with his dad’s rowing machine in the corner. 

It’s funny — Sylvain’s parents never do anything with Miklan’s room after he leaves, after they kick him out with just the clothes on his back. It sits undisturbed, quiet and dusty as a tomb. If Sylvain were to venture inside — not that he could, locked tight as it is — he would find the bed unmade, the old game system Miklan never returned still on his desk. Trophies gathering dust on the shelf — participant’s medals. It’s Sylvain’s old room that gets torn apart the second he leaves for California, all his things boxed up and put in the attic to rot.

Maybe that was the problem: you’re not supposed to _want_ to leave. In a way, Miklan was the better son — he loved the life, he wanted to be part of it. But the life didn’t love him back. Sylvain is the one who abandons everything his parents built for him, who incurs their wrath even as they do their own brand of pleading to get him to come home. Once he’s successful, once he’s got award-winning screenplays under his belt — well, now it’s all fine and perfect that he left. The satisfaction on his father’s face should make Sylvain feel better, but it only makes him feel worse.

You can run from Faerghus, but only so far. Sylvain feels the tug back home, like a bungee cord pulled taut. There’s a reason he left — a million and a half of them.

But seeing Felix for a moment almost makes him forget them all.

+

The second time Sylvain asks Felix to marry him is an accident. It’s an impulse, like an avalanche set off that he can’t escape from.

“Let’s get married.”

This isn’t how he wanted to do it, on the balcony outside Felix’s room, overlooking Felix’s backyard graduation party, all the tipsy, merry-making teenagers mingling on the lawn. _Now your friends will believe you about having a boyfriend who goes to college in Canada_ , Sylvain had said, and Felix had actually cracked a smile.

 _Dimitri told them you were real._ He said. _Everyone trusts Dimitri._

It’s the way Felix says _everyone_ that Sylvain pays attention to. The rift between Dimitri and Felix is growing, small chips and notches turning a line in the sand into a deep canyon. They won’t talk about it. No one in Faerghus wants to talk about anything that isn’t polite small-talk and idle chatter. Felix is different than the rest of them, sharp enough to tear through century-old fake niceties. But there are some traditions even he takes to; namely, choking all the air out of your hurt feelings, holding them down tight until they go limp. Pile bodies in your closet and soon enough you’ll have enough skeletons to go around.

Felix’s eyes still follow Dimitri, like a moon orbiting the sun. And still, Sylvain knows Felix wants to leave, wants to run from this town the same way Sylvain wants to. The same way he’s _going_ to.

“I’m leaving.” The words tumble from Sylvain’s mouth the second they’re alone. “I’m leaving school, I’m moving to California. And I want you to come with me.”

Felix should say yes. Or, Felix should scream and yell and berate Sylvain. Felix should be happy or furious, but nothing in between. His face shouldn’t droop like it does, that lightning strike of hurt flashing on his face. “What are you—what the hell are you talking about?”

“Didn’t we—” Sylvain reaches for Felix’s hands, but Felix pulls away at the last second, and Sylvain grasps at the cold air between them. “Didn’t we always say we should leave? Why not now?”

“You can’t just _spring_ this on me and expect me to know what to say!” Felix runs a hand through his hair, half of it coming out of his loose bun. “When the fuck did this happen?”

Sylvain doesn’t answer, because the truth is _long enough ago that you_ _’d be mad_. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was waiting for the right time, I guess, if that’s even a thing. But you _know_ how much I—how I hate it here, I hate every step being planned out for me and—” This is a conversation they’ve had before, the same script on repeat. “I thought you felt the same. I thought you wanted to get out of here.”

“I don’t need a-a—” Felix splutters, turning away as his voice pitches up. “I don’t need you to whisk me away on your—your white horse, and save me from all this shit. I can take care of myself!”

“I know, I know,” Sylvain tries to reach for his boyfriend, but Felix steps away, back toward the house — back to warmth, back to safety. Felix never was the kind to jump off a cliff without a good reason. He’d hate to know it, but he has too much sense for that. “But I want you to come. I _love_ you, Fe. I don’t want to do this without you.”

That’s it, there are the magic words. Felix’s face finally softens, just a hair, and he steps back toward Sylvain, arms twitching like he’s going in for a hug, or to do that thing he does sometimes, where he just holds Sylvain’s arm; like he needs a reminder Sylvain is still there.

And Sylvain, sensing victory right on the horizon, has to fuck the whole thing up.

“Let’s get married.”

Now, finally, the fury sparks in Felix’s expression, voice going hot as a brand. “You’re kidding me. You’re fucking _kidding_ me, Sylvain! It’s like you don’t give a shit about—about what I have to say, or how _I_ feel.” He’s shaking, hands balled up at his sides. “You never once fucking thought to ask me about this, did you?”

“I did,” Sylvain croaks out — but Felix is right. Sylvain made the decision to leave and never once looked back, assuming everything would follow perfectly in his wake. That same childish arrogance.

“Moving won’t fix how you’re feeling Sylvain,” Felix says, eyes cold as steel. “It won’t fix _you_.”

Here’s the worst part about being in love: letting another person know you so well means they know exactly how to hurt you. And you know exactly how to hurt them back.

“At least I’m doing _something!_ ” Sylvain hisses. “Sitting around and pretending to be your brother won’t bring him back.”

Sylvain knows it’s over the second Felix’s face changes — no fury, no anger, nothing. He goes still as a statue, like one of the old stone gargoyles decorating the churches in town. He turns his back on Sylvain, looking toward the lake, the scattered glitter of moonlight across dark blue. Under any other circumstance, it would be a beautiful view.

“Go home, Sylvain.”

And it takes a while after that for Sylvain to figure out where _home_ is.

+

Rodrigue Fraldarius doesn’t seem to age, and so when he answers the door he looks about the same as Sylvain remembers from five years past — with maybe a few more gray hairs peeking through. He looks purely delighted to see Sylvain. “It’s been far too long, I was happy to hear you were coming for the holidays,” he says, ushering Sylvain inside and taking his coat. “Can I say, I adored the last movie you worked on.”

 _“Azure Moon?_ Its one of my favorites for sure,” Sylvain smiles. The Fraldarius home also looks the same as it ever did, and feels a lot like home. “It is nice to see you too, I hope you’ve been well.”

“Of course, of course.” Not that a man like Rodrigue would ever tell Sylvain if he _wasn_ _’t_ well. “Felix keeps up with you, you know. I caught him buying that magazine that did a feature on you.”

“Yeah?” Sylvain can’t keep the hopeful lilt out of his voice. That interview — and the photo shoot — had been mildly mortifying, not because Sylvain didn’t like the spotlight, but because he worried it would make him look like the person everyone in Hollywood already thought he was: just another upstart with a bloated ego, a young guy too big for his britches. But the idea of Felix shuffling through the pages, seeing the sultry shots of Sylvain leaning up against a tree, brooding like his life depends on it — well, that makes it more than worth it.

“You’re early.”

Felix appears at the top of the stairs with his hair still damp from a shower, towel around his neck. Rodrigue gives Sylvain a conspiratorial smile and excuses himself with a quick, _I_ _’ll leave you two to it._

“You never specified a time.”

“Whatever,” Felix sniffs, turning back toward the hallway. And, a second later, peeking back, just to make sure Sylvain is following him.

They order dinner from the only Chinese place in town, and Felix’s order is still the same as it was in high school. So much is the same — his room, the view from the bay windows, the collection of swords on the wall. But even so, it feels like something has changed, like Sylvain is stepping onto a movie set but all the actors are different; or that eerie, liminal feeling of standing in a cold spot. And Felix looks so beautiful that Sylvain wants to cry into his moo goo gai pan.

Sylvain’s attempting small talk, which is going over poorly. So poorly that Felix slams his chopsticks down with a bit too much force and says, “We should sleep together.”

“Yeah, the weather—wait, what?”

“You heard me.”

“But I-I don’t,” Sylvain draws in a breath so sharp it cuts his lungs. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Felix stands up abruptly, shoving the trash into the takeout bag, snatching Sylvain’s half-finished dinner out of his hands, the crinkle of paper like static. “You’re here, I’m here, we’ve got—what? A week before Christmas and nothing to do?” Felix is already shucking off his hoodie, and Sylvain dodges it as it whizzes by.

“I mean, we could drive around town, see the lights—”

“—and knowing you, you’re already pent up.”

Sylvain dodges Felix’s shirt, then his binder. “I take offense to that, you know.”

“Sylvain, don’t overthink this.” Felix’s voice goes sharp, and he’s already sitting on the bed with an expectant look. “This is convenience. Take it or leave it.”

That should hurt. It _does_ hurt — but Sylvain’s dick is already reacting to seeing Felix’s body after so many years, all the pale skin Sylvain used to know so well, used to map with his mouth on lazy Sunday mornings. All of Sylvain’s better angels don’t seem to care that this is a bad decision, and his mouth is salivating as Felix starts pulling his sweats off, the dusting of dark pubic hair visible over the band of his briefs.

“Take it. Definitely take it.”

Sylvain falls into Felix’s pull and it feels like no time has passed at all. Felix always kisses like he’s in a hurry, hands gripping the front of Sylvain’s shirt to pull him closer, yanking at his collar until Sylvain has to crawl over top of him, one hand braced next to Felix’s head on the mattress, the other cradling the side of Felix’s neck, fingertips tracing the sharp line of his jaw, pulling his mouth open that little bit more so Sylvain can devour him.

“Get naked,” Felix mumbles, pushing at the collar of Sylvain’s jacket, delightfully unsubtle as always. Sylvain busies himself with undoing his pants and pulling off his shirt while Felix bites a trail of red marks down Sylvain’s neck, hands urgent and needy across Sylvain’s chest.

“Eager, huh?”

Felix doesn’t dignify that with an answer, just shoves at Sylvain’s naked shoulders, “Turn over.”

“Oh?” Sylvain arches a brow, rolling off Felix and onto the flannel sheets. “We’re doing it like that?”

Felix smacks Sylvain’s thigh, just enough to leave a pink mark. “Shut up and get on your knees.”

Sylvain is already so hard he’s leaking, and obediently hikes his legs up so he’s propped on his knees, back bowed and forehead resting against his forearms. It’s been a while since he’s been on the bottom, and it feels delightfully obscene, like he can feel the heat of Felix’s eyes on him. “Yeah, slap me again.”

There’s the conspicuous sound of a lube bottle snapping open. “I thought I told you to shut up.”

“You should— _hh!_ ” Felix’s fingers press first against Sylvain’s taint, stroking him, moving up to tease the rim of his hole before slowly pressing in one finger. Sylvain lets out a slow exhale, breath shaking. “Y-You should know me better.”

“I do,” Felix mumbles. “Unfortunately.”

Sylvain sinks into the mattress and lets Felix work him open in slow, steady thrusts of his hand, until Sylvain is panting and there’s lube dripping down his balls. “Fuck, you’re tight,” Felix grits out, voice hoarse with want. “Who’s had you lately?”

“No—No one,” Sylvain breathes out. “Not in a while.”

“What, none of your precious movie stars can fuck you right?” Felix tuts, petting Sylvain’s insides, pad of his middle finger stroking him just right. “Shame, you were always good at taking my dick.”

“Who—” Sylvain almost laughs, falling forward onto his forearms. “Who taught you to talk like this? _Shit,_ Felix, you’re so—”

His thought gets interrupted by a firm slap to his ass, and Sylvain cries out, hands fisting in the sheets. “No talking. I’m not warning you again.”

Felix doesn’t want to answer — fine. Sylvain would probably rather not hear about who was warming his ex-boyfriend’s bed, anyway. He’d rather reap the rewards, sink into the way Felix takes him apart, alternating quick slaps that turn his ass pink while he continues fingering him. When Felix finally pulls his fingers out, Sylvain can feel himself open, the cold air and feeling of emptiness making him whine. “Slut,” Felix mutters, and Sylvain can hear the clatter of buckles as he pulls on his strap. The second he lets himself relax is when Felix slaps the head of his strap against Sylvain’s hole, letting his rim mouth at the girth of it.

“Sh-Shit, Fe—” Sylvain whines as Felix pushes in, a noise that pitches into an embarrassing whimper. _Fuck_ , it’s really been a while, and the unyielding width of Felix’s cock and the unforgiving way he thrusts in are narrowing Sylvain’s world down to a single point of heat. His heartbeat pounds in his ears; Felix thrusts into him with short, selfish bursts of his hips. There’s a distance that’s making Sylvain’s cock _throb_ , the way Felix uses him without a second thought — no hand on his cock, no regard for how each time Felix rail into him, Sylvain slides up the mattress, until he has to brace himself against the bed frame. The way the head of the strap bumps Sylvain’s prostate seems almost like an afterthought, and Felix is gripping his hips so hard Sylvain is sure there will be fingerprint bruises there tomorrow.

“C-Can I— _shit, fuck_ —” Sylvain’s drooling on the sheets, and when Felix slows down just a bit, he can hear the way the other man is breathing heavy. Good to know he’s not the only one feeling wrecked, then. “Fuck me, fuck me, c’mon.”

“Don’t—Don’t tell me what to do,” Felix huffs out, slapping the side of Sylvain’s thigh, but he fucks back into Sylvain’s hole, now in slow, deliberate thrusts, grinding down so he can get the friction on his clit. Sylvain strains past the pounding in his ears to catch the sounds Felix makes — high, breathy things that he wants to capture in a jar and keep for lonely nights.

“Fe—”

“Don’t,” Felix snaps, grabbing Sylvain’s shoulder to pull him back on his strap. “No names.”

 _Right._ This is convenience, a half-anonymous fuck for the sake of release. Sylvain shouldn’t be turned on by that — but he never claimed to be a well-adjusted man.

He can feel Felix growing frustrated, hips grinding for more friction, so Sylvain uses his last bit of strength to sit up and push Felix off of him, the strap leaving his ass with a wet _pop!_ “What the—” Felix protests for half a second before Sylvain pins him down against the bed, scrambling to get the strap off, to feel how wet he is beneath. Felix squirms and whines, but he’s too turned on to really protest; Sylvain can tell by the splotchy red of his face, the way his eyes are glassy and far-away.

“Shh, I got you, I got you,” Sylvain tosses the strap behind him, and lines his dick up against Felix’s, that sweet grind smoothed along by Felix’s own arousal, leaking onto the bedsheets beneath him.

“F-Fuck—” Felix lets out a breathy moan, shaking in Sylvain’s arms; his hands grip Sylvain’s arms, fingernails biting crescent moons into his skin. It takes no time at all for them to both fall apart, one after the other — Felix first, back bowing up off the bed as he comes, eyes squeezed shut. Sylvain tries to watch him as long as he can — commit every bead of sweat and trembling line to memory — before he follows, eyes falling shut as he lets his orgasm take him, streaking his own belly and Felix’s in white.

The afterglow is short. “Gross,” Felix mutters, wiping the mess of his stomach.

“It’s gotta go somewhere,” Sylvain mumbles, collapsing onto Felix, their sweaty bodies sticking together. He ignores Felix’s protests, the way he swats at him. “C’mon, just a little cuddle.”

“No.”

“For warmth!”

Felix squirms beneath Sylvain, just enough to escape his clutches, and exhales hard as he sinks into the mattress. both of them lying side-by-side, looking up at the ceiling. Sylvain had almost forgotten about the glow-in-the-dark stars he got Felix for his birthday, a decade and a lifetime ago. Now, in the low light, he can see them still stuck up on the ceiling, tiny private constellations. He wants that to mean something; he wants to say something. But the post-orgasm haze is keeping all the wires in Sylvain’s brain crossed, and the best he can do is, “We should do that again sometime.”

And Felix, to his surprise, actually agrees. “You free tomorrow?”

+

Felix is working over the holidays, day shifts at the auto repair. He started working there a year ago, as soon as Rodrigue started hinting that he was looking to retire, some last-ditch rebellion. He has a few friends, people who live in the area that he want to college with, but no girlfriends or boyfriends since Sylvain left. Felix himself doesn’t tell Sylvain this — it’s just what Sylvain manages to glean from his short conversations with Rodrigue every time he comes over at the behest of one of Felix’s _you up?_ texts. _Yes, good evening, Sir. I_ _’ve been well, and you? Oh, you know, just here to rail your son into the mattress._

If Felix doesn’t want to talk, fine — sex will do nicely. That’s always been Sylvain’s preferred language, hasn’t it?

And besides, they’ve both learned a few new tricks since they were teenagers sneaking around and fucking in the backseat of Sylvain’s car. Felix swallows Sylvain down like a pro now, looking up at him wet lashes and eyes flashing with pride. He ties Sylvain’s wrists against the headboard and rids him like a toy, and Sylvain returns the favor once he’s been set loose by fucking Felix up against the wall, hand clamped over his mouth to keep him from waking half the town with his wailing. Once day, while Sylvain’s parents are out at some swanky holiday party, he invites Felix over and bends him over the railing of the balcony, cold metal biting into his stomach while Sylvain opens his ass up as slowly as possible, inching inside him with a punched-out groan. And when it’s all over, he warms them up in the shower, eating Felix out, one massive hand propping Felix’s thigh up against the slippery wall.

“You look comfortable,” Sylvain teases, as Felix curls up on the mattress.

“Warm,” is all Felix says, burying his face into the pillows. They nap for a little while, and Felix is just fucked out and tired enough to let Sylvain spoon him, arms wrapped tight around Felix’s middle, chin tucked against his shoulder, breathing in the smell of his shampoo in Felix’s hair. It’s nice — too nice, probably. Too familiar, like something out of a dream Sylvain’s had countless times since he left.

And when he wakes up, Felix is smacking his cheek, looking expectant. “Wake up.”

“Good morning, sunshine.”

“Wake _up_ ,” Felix shoves at Sylvain’s shoulder again, but he’s cracking a smile — and just as soon as Sylvain sees the corners of his lips lifting, Felix turns away, leaning town to pull his pants and socks on. “It’s not even eight, and I need a ride.”

Sylvain arches a brow. “Hot date?”

“Hardly,” Felix snorts — and Sylvain lets out a relieved breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I promised Annette I would go caroling with her.”

Annette — that’s a name Sylvain recognizes from Ingrid’s sporadic Instagram posts. One of the very few people who lives in the area not because she grew up here, but because she decided to move back home after graduating from college and reuniting with her dad. _Felix still has a weakness for redheads_ , is Ingrid’s only explanation when Sylvain asks how she and Felix became friends in the first place. And it certainly explains why Felix of all people is rushing to get dressed to go sing in front of a bunch of people in the freezing weather.

“You think she’ll mind if you bring a plus one?”

Felix’s movements stutter to a stop, and he’s still turned away from Sylvain, face obscured from the side by how his bangs hair falls into his face. He tucks a bit of it behind his ear, and Sylvain can see him chewing on his bottom lip. “If you want,” he mumbles, chin ducking against his collar bone as he laces his boots. “You’re driving anyway.”

The ride isn’t long, just a jaunt back into town to where the Christmas Village is set up. “Shit, I almost forgot about this place,” Sylvain says as they round the corner to the massive property. It used to belong to the Blaiddyds, before Dimitri’s parents died and he donated the property to the town. Since then, each year municipal employees and volunteers use it to create a massive holiday wonderland for the kids, a veritable maze of lights and stalls passing out hot drinks and sugary cookies. And at the center of it all, the man himself: Santa Claus. Or, rather — Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd with a fake beard and a pillow stuffed under his red velvet jacket.

“What!” Sylvain parks haphazardly and rushes Felix out of the car. “You didn’t say Dimitri was gonna be here!”

“He’s always here,” Felix says, laughing a bit under his breath. “I thought you had… don’t you keep up with him?”

“Not, um,” Sylvain slows his steps, dodging a few kids running underfoot. “Not really. I chat with Ingrid every once in a while, when I’m free, but I know Dimitri is—he’s a busy guy, so.”

The look on Felix’s face is a bit unreadable, colors from the flashing lights painting his face in green-red-white-blue-pink. All he says is _oh_ , and in the second of silence after, Sylvain realizes what the problem is.

“You didn’t—” Sylvain chuckles, running a hand up Felix’s arm. “You didn’t think I was just ignoring _you_ , right? Like—” Fuck, this is hard to explain without being painfully honest. “When I left, I-I kind of stopped talking to everyone.”

“You said you talked to Ingrid.” Felix is pouting now, but he’s not stomping away, which bodes well for Sylvain.

“Kinda,” Sylvain smiles. “It’s—I spent so much time just pretending my old life didn’t exist. And then it got harder and harder to reach out. It’s not like I don’t miss you guys, because I do. Constantly.”

Felix’s eyes dart away, looking anywhere but at the painfully earnest look on Sylvain’s face — they land on the spot between their feet, the patch of powder snow that’s made just a little bit less pristine by their boot marks; soon, it will be muddy and dirty and melting into an ugly mess. But, after that — spring.

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

“You know me,” Sylvain shrugs. “Path of most resistance and whatnot.”

“That’s a load of shit,” Felix laughs. “Well, come say hi, Dimitri never stopped asking about you.”

The one thing Sylvain does know — courtesy, again, of his and Ingrid’s quarterly catch-ups — is that the gulf between Dimitri and Felix has shallowed considerably. All the pain from the accident that killed Dimitri’s parents and Felix’s brother was a wound that never properly healed, constantly torn open and infected with new grievances. Like all wounds, it can either kill you or it can eventually heal — and from the look of things, and the way Felix brings Dimitri in for a hug and playfully tugs at his fake beard, things have healed over nicely.

“Sylvain!” Dimitri’s bright blue eyes twinkle like Saint Nicholas himself, and he shakes Sylvain’s hand before pulling him in for a massive bear hug, clapping his back hard. “Oh, I missed you, my friend!”

“Me too, man,” Sylvain wheezes out. Dimitri is still as genuine and terrifyingly strong as always. He pulls back and they both grasp each other’s biceps, grinning like fools. “I’m really happy we ran into you.”

“Dimitri is the mayor now,” Felix says, dropping the news as unceremoniously as possible.

“What!”

“Come on,” Dimitri shakes Sylvain amicably by the shoulders before letting him go, “It’s not a big deal. The election just happened, I’m not even sworn-in yet.”

Still humble, still playing down all his accomplishments. But Dimitri looks good — better than good, he looks healthy and clear-eyed. It was always hard to watch Dimitri button up all his problems, hide them beneath stormy eyes and stiff movements, like if he wasn’t perfect at all times, everything would come crashing down. Now, he has a nice ease about him, something that feels utterly _Dimitri_. Sylvain is happy to see it — and guilty. Because where was he? While his friends were finally sweeping the skeletons out of their closet, what was Sylvain doing?

Sylvain swallows down the tickle in this throat. “I’m really happy for you. You’ll do great, I know it.”

“Thank you, Sylvain,” Dimitri smiles, eye going crinkly. “And I want you to know, we’re all really proud of you. Felix too, even if he doesn’t say it.”

There’s a small gaggle of children all waiting for Santa’s attention, and Sylvain feels painfully close to crying, so they say their goodbyes and shuffle off toward the porch of the house, where they can see the carolers gathering, all of them holding crisp sheet music being passed out by a tiny redhead in a flouncy red dress. She zeroes in on Felix and Sylvain the second they walk up.

“Felix!! You came, thank goodness!” She shoves a binder of choir music at him. “You’re a lifesaver, can you hold the extras and take up the rear, just so the scragglers can get music? Some people come late and—oh!” She’s finally seen Sylvain, and pauses in her whirlwind explanation. Sylvain can see the cogs turning in her mind. “Oh! I’ve heard Felix talk about you, you’re Sylvain!”

He grins. “The one and only.”

“Okay, we got it,” Felix shoos Annette back to the carolers, who are starting to get antsy as the temperature drops. “The sooner we start the sooner we can stop.”

“Felix!” Annette admonishes, swatting Felix’s shoulder and turning on her heel so swiftly that her skirt billows behind her. Felix is snickering to himself, and the cold is making his ears go red, and Sylvain wants to kiss him so badly it hurts.

“So,” he starts as they start walking down the property and onto the street for their door-to-door route — surely carefully mapped out by Annette. “You talk about me?”

“Don’t know what you mean,” Felix says, looking over at Sylvain with an arch of his brow. “Only bad things, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

In the couple years that they’re in high school together, Sylvain convinces Felix to take choir for his music credit. He agrees, if only to piss of his dad, who Felix assumes wants him to follow in Glenn’s footsteps and take up piano. But Felix hates choir — he hates the pitchy singers and the forced cheeriness and the coordinated side-to-side swaying. Still, he sticks it out. And Sylvain never tells him, but he loves listening to Felix sing, that clear alto like a bell ringing. It’s nice to hear him sing again, even if it’s just half-hearted renditions of Christmas standbys.

They’re in the middle of a rendition of _O Holy Night_ for a bemused looking couple when Sylvain nudges Felix’s ribs. “You ever think this song is kind of dirty?”

“It’s—” Felix splutters. “It’s about _Jesus_.”

“Yeah, so all that stuff about falling to you knees and divine nights _isn_ _’t_ supposed to evoke a great blow job?”

“Sylvain!” Felix pushes Sylvain off the sidewalk, and doubles over to hide his laughter. “You are disgusting.” 

It’s nice to hear Felix sing again. It’s even better to see him smile again.

“Hey, I’m just saying!” Sylvain loops an arm around Felix’s side, and Felix lets him. He might even lean a bit against him. “I will say, every time you get on your knees, I do hear angel voices.”

Felix jabs the music binder into Sylvain’s ribs hard enough to leave a bruise. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Here and there,” Sylvain muses, tucking his fingers into Felix’s coat pocket, pulling him that tiny bit closer. “I will say some things haven’t changed.”

“Some things,” Felix repeats. And this time, he doesn’t try to hide his smile.

+

It’s too early for a booty call, but Sylvain gets a text from Felix anyway. _If you_ _’re free, come to shopping center._ Sylvain almost laughs because — well, of course he’s free. But it’s cute that Felix would even ask.

Sylvain spends a bit too much time picking out a turtleneck-vest combo and fluffing his hair so it looks artfully tossed before driving downtown. Faerghus doesn’t have many big box stores or massive chains, so the local shopping center is their closest thing to a mall — if you don’t want to drive forty-five minutes out of town, that is. It’s an amalgamation of boutiques and cafes, all decorated with twinkling lights, passing out free hot chocolate to entice people inside. 

Sylvain finds a parking spot right by the massive tree in the center of downtown, and jogs up to where Felix is waiting, fingers tapping furiously at his phone. “Last-minute gift buying?

Felix looks beautifully pissed off; nose red from the cold, eyebrows furrowed, chin dipped into the fluffy white scarf around his neck. “Rodrigue said no presents, and I go downstairs this morning and—”

Sylvain’s heard this one before, “And he go you a present?”

“Fucking presents everywhere!” Felix shoves his hands into his coat pockets and stalks off toward the nearest boutique, Sylvain following in his wake. “Now I have to get him something or look like an asshole.”

“Your dad’s easy enough to shop for.” Sylvain ducks into the shop, fingers dancing across the tchotchkes and novelty gifts. “Get him a tie or a paper weight and he’s golden.”

“I know that,” Felix mumbles, in the tone Sylvain has come to know as _reluctantly sentimental._ If Felix is going to give a gift at all, he’ll want it to be good; he’ll want it to mean something. He’s all gooey soft under that hard candy shell. “What he really needs is a new car, I can’t keep putting band-aids over his shitty old sedan.”

“I remember that car!” It’s the same one they used to pile into for camping trips and — on one occasion — an ill-advised hunting trip, after which they agreed giving hyperactive teenage boys guns might not be prudent. “Why don’t you buy him a new one, then?”

Felix snorts. “He would never accept it. You know how he is.”

How Rodrigue is — that’s a lot like how Felix is, even if Felix is loathe to admit it. They’re both proud, stubborn, principled. It’s what makes it hard for them to get along; and, paradoxically, what makes their bond so strong. (And what makes them both so hard to shop for.)

They window shop for a bit longer, and Felix dismisses all of Sylvain’s suggestions, chewing on his fingernails as they start to run out of stores to peruse. Sylvain is a bit pleased to be recognized by a few local girls, and he happily takes some selfies with them and records a video for their absent friend. He’s not a household name by any means, but he has his own small cult following, especially after _Azure Moon_ got such attention.

Felix reacts to this all by grabbing Sylvain’s hand and pulling him along to the next store.

“Don’t be jealous,” Sylvain teases, squeezing Felix’s gloved hand in his own. “By the way what should I—”

“I’m not jealous,” Felix huffs, but the way he’s refusing to let go of Sylvain even as rifles through a rack of Christmas sweaters says otherwise. “I just think if they were real fans they would know _Lance of Ruin_ was your better work.”

“Oh,” Sylvain lets the puzzle pieces put themselves together in his brain. “Wait—you watched that? Are you—I didn’t know you even followed my stuff.”

Felix’s voice goes soft, even as he avoids Sylvain’s eyes. “Of course I do, idiot. I never said you weren’t good at what you do.”

 _We_ _’re all really proud of you._ Dimitri’s words come back to Sylvain in a rush. _Felix too, even if he doesn_ _’t say it._

“How about,” Sylvain snatches a mug off the nearest shelf without looking, unable to deal with how sweaty his hand now feels in Felix’s, how many doors he thought were closed seem to be opening and inviting him inside. “You get him this?”

“Number One Slut,” Felix reads off the mug, deadpan. “No, you’re right, my dad would love that.”

Felix doesn’t buy his dad the _Number One Slut_ mug, much to Sylvain’s dismay. What he settles on is a classy-looking paperweight, a nice pen, and a desk planner for the new year. And Sylvain, for his troubles, gets a kiss on the cheek — courtesy of the mistletoe hanging above the store exit that he points out. “’Tis the season,” he says, eyebrows waggling.

“Yeah, whatever,” Felix pops up on his tip toes to kiss Sylvain’s cheek. “’Tis the damn season.”

+

Christmas Eve in the Gautier household is a horrible affair — waves of snooty people coming in and out, speeches and champagne toasts, all the performative aspects of Faerghus that Sylvain despises but excels at. Right up until the day he leaves, Sylvain’s parents enjoy parading him around like a prize pony. Now, with his fair share of career success under his belt, and this being his first Christmas home in five years, Sylvain is expecting an especially large shindig.

Instead, Sylvain’s mother tells him that they’re just doing a small dinner this year, half a dozen people max. _You can invite a guest, though, of course!_

Which is how Sylvain ends up sending Felix a frantic text an hour before the dinner, praying that his dick has built up enough goodwill to deliver a miracle.

“Consider this your present,” Felix hisses when Sylvain opens the door for him, brushing past him and making a beeline for the booze and h’ordeurves. He’s double-fisting a flute of champagne and a pig in a blanket by the time Sylvain catches up. As always, Felix cleans up nice: his hair is plaited into a low braid, and he’s got on tight black slacks and a dark blue turtleneck probably pilfered from Rodrigue’s closet.

“I’ll take it,” Sylvain says, kissing Felix on the forehead before he can protest. “It means a lot to me.”

It’s not that Sylvain hates his parents, or even that he can’t stand being around them — it’s that they turn into different people the second eyes are turned on them, like an illusion you can only see from a certain angle, or a paradox about trees and forests. If a Gautier does something good while no one is watching, did they really do anything good at all?

A few more guests trickle in before Sylvain’s mother asks them to take their seats and starts bringing out the appetizer course. Polite chit-chat is a requisite, and there are just enough people to provide Sylvain a good buffer from his father. It’s always a guessing game whether he’ll get scorn or praise, even in public. But by the time they dig into the main course, Gautier Sr. has seemingly chosen his target for the night.

“Felix, I hear your father is trying to retire.”

Felix stabs at his steak. “He is.”

“Taking a little while, huh? But I heard you’re working at—where is it again?”

The line of Felix’s jaw tightens. “I’m currently an auto mechanic, yes.”

“Best one in town, I’m sure,” Sylvain jumps in, winking at the man to his right, who chuckles amicably. Deflect, deflect, deflect — Sylvain is an expert. “By the way, I wonder if any of you saw the last movie I worked on, I always like to hear what people think—”

“It’s a shame,” Sylvain’s dad’s voice rumbles over the table. Not in the mood for distractions, apparently. “Since Blaiddyd will be Mayor soon, your company has a huge opportunity to snatch up a lot of government contracts. That’s good money you’re throwing away.”

“I have no interest in using the town as a cash cow, not that Dimitri would ever do something so uncouth,” Felix’s voice goes even, posture straightening as glares impassively across the table. “And you already know that my father is considering selling the company, maybe even to you.”

“Well, of course we talk—”

“Or,” Felix tilts his head to the side. “Were you hoping I’d take over so you could squeeze a better deal out of a poor, inexperienced kid like me?”

Sylvain tries to scrape his jaw up off the floor, but it’s a fool’s errand. It’s not the first time Felix has talked back to his father — far from it, Felix was always a bratty teenager — but it’s the first time he’s seen his father so _bowed_ by it, so ashamed as he mutters out a _no, of course not,_ and returns to pushing his green beans around his plate like a five year-old. Sylvain’s mother jumps in with an overly-enthusiastic story about a new charity board she’s joining, and soon dessert and coffee are passed around the table like nothing even happened. Felix even compliments Sylvain’s mother’s cheesecake recipe with a polite smile. Sylvain wants to jump across the table and kiss him until they can’t breathe.

No surprises, Felix and Sylvain excuse themselves from the table first, and Sylvain sees Felix out to his truck, parked at the end of the Gautier’s obscenely long driveway. Felix pauses before opening his car door, and turns to Sylvain with a grimace. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you kidding? That was the best Christmas Eve I’ve had in a while.”

“No, not about that, your dad deserved it,” Felix snorts, looking a tiny bit pleased with himself. “I mean about—I’m sorry I was so mad when you left. And I’m sorry I was mad you never came back, a-although I guess you didn’t know that other part, but,” he wipes a hand down his face. “I’m trying to apologize. Because if I were you, I would’ve wanted to leave too. Fuck, sometimes I still do.”

Sylvain bites his cheek so hard he tastes metal. This is it, this is what he’s always wanted — for Felix to see what made him run so fast from this town in the first place, an admission that he was right all along. But there was never a right or wrong answer, nothing easy that Sylvain could point to. He knew it would hurt Felix if he left, and he did it anyway. He took the ache that lived inside him and forced Felix to carry it too.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Sylvain’s throat is going tight. “I was a stupid kid, I thought I knew best. I should be the one saying sorry.”

“Yeah, you were stupid back then,” Felix says, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. “And you’re stupid now for staying away so long.”

Sylvain grins, reaching out to hold one of Felix’s hands, pulling it against his chest so Felix can feel his heart beat. “I know better, now.”

Felix’s throat bobs, voice tight when he answers, “Good.”

“Besides,” Sylvain smiles. “You can come visit me too. I’ll even pay for your air fare.”

At that, Felix lets out a tiny bark of a laugh, pulling his hand back to smack Sylvain lightly, “It’s the least you could do, honestly.”

“Hey,” Sylvain says, almost as an afterthought as Felix climbs into his truck. “Since you coming tonight was my present, what should I get you?”

“Nothing.”

“C’mon, Fe,” Sylvain rolls his eyes, clinging to the car door. “People always say they don’t want anything, but they do. What kind of weird knife can I get special-ordered for you?”

Felix revs the engine, and as the car comes to life the radio starts, playing some obscenely cheery Christmas music that doesn’t suit Felix at all. “I mean it. I got what I wanted, you came home.”

He doesn’t wait before pulling out of the driveway, leaving Sylvain in a cloud of dust and snow, grinning so hard it hurts.

+

The third time Sylvain asks Felix to marry him, it’s after his biggest movie premiere, and the equally massive after party.

“Move out here, and—and, you know, we’ll get hitched,” is the romantic proposition, made after a bottle of obscenely expensive brandy and Sylvain’s loose trigger finger scrolling through his contacts. “Please, Fe, I miss you so bad. All the time I miss you. I’m not—I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it. Liquor is liquid truth, right? Marry me.”

“It’s courage,” is Felix’s response, after a pause so long, Sylvain is sure he’s dialed the wrong number. “The saying is that it’s liquid courage.”

“Oh. Same difference, right?”

“Sylvain.” Felix’s voice is rough with sleep. Sylvain must have woken him up – what the hell is the time difference, anyway? “Drink some water. And go the fuck to sleep.”

The third time Sylvain asks Felix to marry him, he doesn’t remember it the next day. Which is a shame, because for a second, Felix almost says yes.

+

When they were younger, they used to all get together on Christmas morning — the Gautiers, Blaiddyds, Galateas, and Fraldariuses, gathered in the massive dining room of the Blaiddyd home for breakfast. To tide the kids over until presents, they were allowed to open just their stockings, all the small knick-knacks and pocket-sized toys that they played with on the old Persian rug. Even now, Sylvain thinks of those mornings and feels that painful squeeze of nostalgia, the love and warmth of it radiating through the years. Even as the crowd tragically thins — first Felix’s mother, then Miklan, then Glenn and the Blaiddyds — those mornings still make up most of Sylvain’s best Christmas memories.

That is, until now — until Sylvain watches Felix stomp across his front yard with a furious look on his face, grab Sylvain by the face, and kiss him so hard Sylvain can hear their teeth clacking together.

“Merry Christmas to you too,” Sylvain snickers, lips ghosting across Felix’s as he cups the side of his face.

“Shut up, I’m mad at you.”

“Ah, so you got my present.” Or, more accurately, _Rodrigue_ _’s_ present. Sylvain had put in a rush order for a new car for the elder Fraldarius, to be delivered on Christmas day: a practical four-door sedan with heated seats and a back-up camera, just what every dad wants.

“He loves it,” Felix huffs out a laugh, knocking his forehead against Sylvain’s. “And he’s _so_ mad, but he’s too polite to refuse a gift.”

Sylvain shrugs, “He deserves it. Gotta use that sweet Hollywood money for something, right?”

“I’m—” Felix opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. And, deciding that the words aren’t going to come easily, he slumps into Sylvain’s chest, arms still wrapped around his neck. He says something, muffled by the thick fabric of Sylvain’s sweater, but it sounds an awful lot like _I missed you._

Sylvain strokes a hand down Felix’s hair — he’s left it down, for once, and it looks beautiful like this, with that trademark Fraldarius curl at the very ends. “I missed you too. Every damn day.”

They stumble inside, upstairs to the guest room where Sylvain’s already packing for his trip home. His parents are blessedly out for the day already at some charity event, so Sylvain doesn’t bother holding back, immediately tossing Felix onto the bed and climbing on top of him with a new hunger; something distilled and pure, something he’s been carrying around in his chest for five years now. “Every day, Felix,” he mumbles, kissing him until they’re both dizzy and out of breath. “I thought about you every day.”

Felix just nods, lips bitten closed, like he’s afraid of what will come out of he opens his mouth. But his body speaks for him, eager and responsive to each touch, shivering when Sylvain pulls off his layers and traces patterns into his skin with his mouth; trembling when Sylvain tugs on his nipples; and finally — _finally_ — letting out a soft moan when Sylvain kisses down his stomach and finds his cock, pinked up and swollen in the nest of his pubic hair.

“ _Fuck_ , Syl—like that, yeah—” Felix breathes out, hand fisting in Sylvain’s hair as Sylvain sucks him off, curls his hot tongue around his clit and sucks, _hard_ , relishing the way Felix wails and his legs go tight, squeezing around Sylvain’s head. Felix has never been _gentle_ in bed, least of all when he gets like this — grasping at Sylvain with white knuckles, head thrown back and mouth open in a silent scream, veins in his neck tense as he trembles. Sylvain slides one finger inside and Felix’s hole opens up for him smooth and eager, pulling him in deeper.

“I got you, baby,” Sylvain mumbles, thumbing at the hot button of Felix’s dick, curling his fingers to hit that sweet spot that has Felix keening. “C’mon, sweetheart, come for me, I wanna feel you.”

Felix comes apart with a wail, legs clamping so tight around Sylvain’s head that, for a moment, Sylvain can’t even breath. But there’s not much he loves more than this, than feeling Felix come undone. He bucks his hips down against the mattress as he helps Felix along, fingering him through the aftershocks of his orgasm, and it’s not a second after Felix finally goes limp that Sylvain comes in his pants, grinding down hard against the bed, mouth dropped open and breathing hot against Felix’s thigh.

“W-Wow,” Felix huffs out a laugh. “Liked that, huh?”

“I can tell you’re worried but,” Sylvain kisses Felix’s thigh, then his still-trembling clit, then his hole, his voice a warm rumble against Felix’s most sensitive spots. “I intend to keep going.”

Felix grins and falls back against the bed, wrapping a leg around Sylvain’s shoulder, pulling him that impossible bit closer. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

This time, they fall asleep wrapped together — a sweaty, messy tangle of limbs. It’s a fitful afternoon sleep, and they wake up a few times for round three, and round four, and round five. Sylvain feels wrung dry and more satisfied than he’s felt in a long time by the time Felix finally drags him to the shower, wordlessly scrubbing them both down. They dry off and get dressed in some of Sylvain’s old Christmas pajamas, and shuffle to the kitchen like zombies looking for leftovers to re-fuel. Sylvain makes them hot chocolate, and it’s only when they’re sitting cozy in front of the fire in the living room that Sylvain feels that first chill. Because, like always, he can’t stand the look of perfect things.

Like always, he opens his big fat mouth. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Felix is sitting curled up, head resting on his knees. “I know,” he says, turning to Sylvain. “I won’t ask you to stay.”

And Sylvain never really expected him too. Felix isn’t selfish like that, not selfish like Sylvain. He didn’t ask him to stay all those years ago, so why would he now? As protective and stubborn and fierce as Felix can be, he’s also learned to do the one thing Sylvain never did — Felix learns to let go. He lets go of his brother, he lets go of his anger against Dimitri. He lets go of Sylvain — because that’s what you do with things you love, right?

Felix has always been like that, that hard shell, spiked and intimidating, but with a heart so tender that if you squeeze too tight it would crumble in your hands. Sylvain knows — he has the blood on his hands to prove it.

“Then,” Sylvain tries for a wobbly smile, cupping the side of Felix’s face. “I won’t ask you to wait for me.”

Felix snorts, but he turns into Sylvain’s palm all the same, reaching for that familiar warmth. “Because you know I won’t.”

“No,” Sylvain brushes a strand of hair behind Felix’s ear. “Because I know you would.”

Felix learns to let go, but he never learns how to give up hope. And that’s the dangerous thing about him.

Sylvain’s flight is early, and Felix has a batch of unread text messages from Rodrigue — _just making sure you_ _’re alive, my beloved son!! —_ so it doesn’t make sense for Felix to spend the night, even if all Sylvain wants is to fall asleep in a warm bed with Felix wrapped around him. Reluctantly, he packs up some of his mom’s leftover cheesecake, puts Felix’s dirty clothes in a laundry bag, and walks him out to his truck. It’s snowing, just enough to dust the tops of the trees with white.

“I mean it, you know,” Sylvain says, chucking Felix’s things into his backseat. “Come out to LA anytime, my treat. Stay as long as you want.”

“I’ll consider it,” Felix says, shutting the door and rolling down the window so he can lean out for one last kiss. “Sylvain, I’m glad you came.”

“Me too,” Sylvain breaths, and the ache of the cold air that curls between them as Felix pulls away is almost too much to bear. He pulls his coat tighter around himself and watches Felix drive off into the snowy night.

+

The first time Sylvain asks Felix to marry him — well, that’s the only time that matters, really.

“What if we’re knights?” Felix suggests. It’s his turn to decide what they’re playing today, and it’s just the two of them with Dimitri at piano practice and Ingrid at her swimming lessons. It’s a rare day of seasonably warm summer weather, and they have the run of the woods at the back of of the Fraldarius lot. When you’re that young, an acre of forest feels like an entire world’s worth of exploration.

“Okay, I want a horse though!” Sylvain says, but Felix is already on the hunt for the perfect sword—or stick, that is.

He seems to find it, because his face lights up. “Look, look Sylvain, look!” He does a few flourishes with his new weapon, and Sylvain cheers him on as he hacks at a dead log, chipped bark flying.

They play for hours, riding imaginary steeds, slaying imaginary foes, saving imaginary victims. They play so long that they forget to go back inside for sunscreen, and they’ll definitely be whining about it tomorrow — Sylvain tans, but Felix burns bright red, and his nose stays pink for weeks after. Sylvain looks forward to teasing him about it.

Because Felix puts Sylvain in charge of making up the story line — “You’re older, you do it!” — the story goes a bit dark. Felix and Sylvain end up facing an imaginary army all alone, just the two of them against the world. Their tale ends with both of them perishing on the battlefield, dying side-by-side. A bit macabre for the mind of a ten year-old, but Sylvain always did know how to spin a yarn.

Besides, it gives him an idea. “Hey, let’s make a promise.”

Felix pops up from his imagined undoing. “About what?”

“That we’ll always stick together, until we die.”

“That sounds scary.”

“It’s not!”

Felix wrinkles his nose, “We won’t die, I’ll get stronger so we always win.”

“Okay,” Sylvain grins. “And I’ll have your back, always.”

“And we’ll always be together!” Felix adds, sticking out his stick-sword. 

Sylvain takes his cue, crossing his own sword with Felix’s. “Promise.”

The first time Sylvain asks Felix to marry him, it’s not much of a proposal at all. But it’s the one they remember, and it’s the promise they keep.

+

It’s barely an airport, but it has all the usual trappings: coffee shop outside the gate check, overly-invasive security, people lining up at the gate before their section’s even been called. There’s a bigger crowd than usual flying out of Faerghus, the post-Christmas crowd escaping as soon as possible, probably. When he was flying in, part of Sylvain thought he would be happy to leave: make it through the week, make it through Christmas, and then it’s back home to sunny California and the new normal. No icy formalities, no familial expectations. Just that same uncanny tug, the one thread he can’t snap pulling him back to his hometown.

And Felix, like a permanent sore spot on his heart.

 _I did something stupid,_ Sylvain texts Ingrid while he settles into his seat.

_damn it sylvain. what now?_

Sylvain starts to type, but he can’t settle on how to word it — was the mistake that he spent time with Felix in the first place? That he let himself get too comfortable, that he let himself fall in love all over again? Or was _this_ the mistake — the plane, the leaving, the long journey away from the one fucking person in the world who knows Sylvain inside and out and loves him anyway? 

He settles on sending _I love him so much I feel stupid_ and then puts his phone on airplane mode, pulls out his sleeping mask, and covers his eyes, settling in for the flight.

Whoever sits down next to Sylvain doesn’t have a great sense of personal space — or timeliness, considering they’re maybe five minutes from taking off. Sylvain hears them kick their bag beneath the seat and huff as they buckle their seatbelt and put up the arm rest separating the seats. Well, Sylvain prefers to keep that down, but that’s fine. Not a long flight, anyway, just a jaunt to Rochester and then the connecting flight back to LA. Except now the person is leaning over Sylvain to look out the window — and now he’s pulling up Sylvain’s sleep mask, yanking it off his face.

It’s Felix, grinning at Sylvain like a kid on Christmas morning.

“If this is a dream I think I’m good with staying asleep,” Sylvain says.

“Corny,” Felix rolls his eyes, but he’s still grinning, clearly very pleased with himself and his little surprise. “Don’t be too happy. You’re paying me back for the plane ticket.”

“Still happy,” Sylvain says, swallowing hard to keep the tears down. 

Felix must see him welling up, because he reaches over to pinch Sylvain’s cheek, and then kisses him — just a quick, chaste peck. With the promise of so much more behind it. “It’s not too bad, I only bought one way.”

“My bank account thanks you,” Sylvain says, arching a brow and leaning back so Felix can sidle up next to him, at least as much as the seat belts will allow. “Is this—you really want to come? This is what you want?”

Felix hums, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. “I hate the heat, I hate crowds, I hate celebrities. I’ll have to find a new job, which sucks.” He turns his face up toward Sylvain, that earnestness sparkling in amber eyes — Felix never does anything lightly, Sylvain should know by now. “I want to be where you are. And we can figure out the rest.”

“I love you,” Sylvain whispers, voice low and wobbly. “I should have come back for you a long time ago.”

“Maybe,” Felix says, a fond smile sloping over his face. “You’re lucky I’m patient.”

Lucky doesn’t even describe to cover it, Sylvain thinks.

Felix stifles a yawn, eyes bleary from the cold and the early morning, and he leans into Sylvain, resting his head on Sylvain’s shoulder and letting his eyelids flutter shut. It will be a long trip home, and a longer time still until they can figure this all out, Sylvain knows. But for now, Felix’s hand in his is warm and his cheek is cold, like Sylvain’s own private December.

And it feels like home.


End file.
